


My Sweetest Friend

by Milieu



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Canon Compliant, F/F, Rare Pairings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-27
Updated: 2016-07-27
Packaged: 2018-07-27 01:24:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 925
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7597954
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Milieu/pseuds/Milieu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A moment of much-needed companionship, after the Sorting during Snape's year as Headmaster.</p>
            </blockquote>





	My Sweetest Friend

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by [cosmic_llin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cosmic_llin/pseuds/cosmic_llin) in the [femslashrevolution2016](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/femslashrevolution2016) collection. 



> **Prompt:**
> 
> their relationship during the events of Deathly Hallows
> 
> Title is from "Hurt" by either Nine Inch Nails or Johnny Cash, whichever version you prefer.

The first time Rolanda storms into Minerva's office after dinner, fists clenched tight so that they won't tremble and her vision blurred by hot, angry tears, is just after the Sorting. Oh, a fine Sorting it was, indeed. The Sorting Hat had done its best, poor thing, but the mood hanging over the great hall was not one of celebration as it should have been, not of new adventures and the promise of a school year just beginning. Not with Snape looming over the proceedings from the Headmaster's chair like some great forbidding bat and those Carrows smirking on either side of him. Not with the children huddled in their groups as they were, glancing nervously around them at their fellow classmates and teachers alike. Not with all those empty seats from those who had not returned, for one reason or another.

Rolanda has seen a lot, in her years. Why, she weathered the Great War as a teenager and lived to see another, greater still. She has seen the rise and fall of nations, muggle and magical alike. She stood firm in the First Wizarding War, hid refugees and fended off anyone looking to cause trouble, Death Eater or not. She'd taught at Hogwarts for nigh-on seventy years now and seen all manner of students pass through her training field; slackers and workaholics, elitists and ragtag bands of misfits, troublemakers and tattle-tales.

And for what? To sit at the head table in the great hall and stare out over the students and feel her heart breaking, unable to think anything other than  _We failed._

_We went through this so you wouldn't have to, and now look. What good have we done, if we must sit by and let this happen all over again?_

She keeps her composure together somehow, but she doesn't linger once dinner ends and the prefects are sent to lead the first-years to their respective common rooms and go over the rules - the  _new_ rules. She isn't the only one angry, nor the only one hurting, but there is only one person she trusts with these bubbling, overwhelming feelings of hers.

She doesn't have to say anything for Minerva to understand. That's good. She doesn't trust herself to speak right now anyways. Her thoughts are the same swirl of  _how dare they how could they what have we done what have we done_ over and over again, the inside of her head so loud that she wouldn't be half surprised to know that everyone in the great hall had heard it.

Oh, how Rolanda hates to cry. She's never been one to cry often, even way back when she was a child. Tears are a waste of energy and hydration, she's always said. Under any other circumstances, she would rather go flying around the school grounds stark naked than let Minerva McGonagall see her weep. Now, though, she flings herself into a chair so forcefully that it skids a few inches across the floor and buries her face in her hands. Minerva rises silently and moves around the desk to embrace her.

Rolanda needs no encouragement to return the embrace, to hold Minerva tightly against herself and reflect on how painfully thin she is, how she's drawn in on herself since Dumbledore's death and the horrid events that followed - and the ones that are still unfolding. Still, there is strength there. There always has been, for as long as Rolanda has known her and before. Minerva is a Gryffindor through and through, and Rolanda has no doubt that the fire will keep burning within her spirit long after her body has been laid to its well-deserved rest.

After several long minutes, Minerva withdraws and sinks into the chair next to the one Rolanda has claimed, rather than returning to her own seat on the opposite side of her desk. She keeps their fingers entwined.

Rolanda wipes her eyes on her sleeve, sniffles not-so-discreetly, and searches for something to say. She comes up with nothing.

Minerva sits up straighter and reaches for her wand, and there is so much weariness in her movements that it makes Rolanda's heart ache. This woman, she has always thought, deserves to hold the world in the palm of her hand, not carry it on her shoulders. Such is the unfairness of life. Minerva spells open one of the drawers of her desk, and levitates out a tin of sweet biscuits, which she offers with only "They're chocolate," for explanation. Rolanda accepts one and nibbles it, though she had no appetite at dinner and still doesn't.

She cannot say how much longer they sit in silence, clinging to each other's hands as though they might both go spiraling into the dark, unfathomable universe were they to let go.

Finally, she cannot take the silence any longer. "What are we going to do?"

The tremble in her voice is noticeable, though she tries to hide it, and it seems to rouse Minerva from whatever thoughts she had been lost in. She draws herself up, lifting her chin in defiance though there is no one in the room but Rolanda to see it, becoming for just a moment the same old Minerva McGonagall that students respect (or fear) and that even seasoned wizards would think twice about challenging.

"We are teachers," Minerva says, fierce and proud, "and we are going to do our jobs come hell or high water, and no matter what  _they_ have to say about it."

When she kisses Rolanda goodnight, it feels like a promise.

**Author's Note:**

> So apparently Madam Hooch is like 35 years older than McGonagall, who knew. Also, upon reviewing her bio, I came to the conclusion that she was probably super badass all her life and chose to represent her as such.


End file.
